Chapter 50
RAINE
“Raine,” he says, his voice dropping to a gravelly tone.
“Is Evander back yet?”
“No, my little Duchess, he won’t be back for a while. But like I said, he’ll be okay. You don’t need to worry.”
Am I worried, though? Worried that actions I didn’t even realize I was taking could have caused Evander harm?
“You’re sure?” I ask again.
“Absolutely.” With a light touch, he runs a finger from my ear down my jaw.
My chest freezes, my breath refusing to leave my lungs.
I lock eyes with his crystal-blue gaze, and then his lips are on mine.
He tastes of sugar, but his familiar scent of mahogany and sage surrounds me.
Zings of excitement travel through my body, and my head’s nestled to his chest. His height is a tall girl’s dream.
Not that I mind short guys, it’s just they have to be really secure in their confidence.
The guy I dated before Jeff not only didn’t walk next to the street, protecting me from cars, he liked me to walk on the street while he was on the sidewalk so he could “see me better.” He only lasted half a date.
I have some standards. Standards that are never going to be the same after Roark and Evander.
Kieren too. At least, I think about him too.
Roark brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “I’ve never . . .”
I look up at him and wait for him to finish, but he shakes his head. “Never what?”
“When the bodyguards called to tell Evander that you were missing . . . I was scared.”
“But I was okay. I am okay.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “I know. But then, when we picked up the scent of the Firesteds, Evander shifted through his clothes first. Fuck. If I’d have done it, I would have destroyed the treaty. They’d have been nothing but two spots of grease on the road outside the pub.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he did. Because there’s no reason to break a treaty over me. I’m not Helen of Troy. I’m not worth going to war over.”
Roark glares at me like he thinks he can tell me I’m wrong. “You’re my Helen of Troy.”
“I’m—”
He cuts me off with his kiss. A toe-curling kiss.
My hands wrap around his neck, and I’m lost in his lips on mine.
Color zips through me like a Picasso. Reds, pinks, blues.
Roark’s tongue makes me clench my legs together.
His hands trail down my back to my butt.
A tug and he has me in his arms, my butt in his hands.
He takes firm steps backward, and I’m no longer in the doorway of his suite but inside it.
He spins me around, pressing me against the door as his kisses trail down my neck. Every touch, every caress, sends shivers down my spine as I lose myself in the intensity of our connection. Roark’s hands move with purpose, exploring every curve of my body like he’s trying to memorize it.
Desire pulses through my veins, and my heart pounds as Roark’s lips travel along my skin. The air in the room crackles with electricity, our bodies moving together. Each touch unravels me more. I want him more. I grind into him.
He lowers me to the bed, and when my head hits the duvet, I reach up for him. I need him. My pajamas find their way to the floor in quick order, and my fingers fumble so long with the tie on Roark’s sweatpants that it has him tilting his neck back.
“Fuck, Raine. You’re driving me crazy. I need a taste of you first.” He steps away but is quickly back. With one of my ankles in each hand, he flips me. It’s sudden and rough. And I’m learning a lot about myself because I really like it.
When his tongue hits my core, my neck snaps back.
He’s got one arm around my leg, holding me up, giving him better access, and the fingers on his free hand are doing dastardly things in sync with his tongue.
I’m moaning. He’s relentless. I know he’s not reading my thoughts, but it feels like it.
He knows just how to touch me, where to touch me, and when to touch me.
My body arches to his rhythm. My breath hitches in anticipation of his next move.
There’s a bundle of energy building beneath his skilled mouth.
Roark’s tongue dances around my clit. Then he stops abruptly, leaving me hanging.
“Roark, please. I’m begging.”
“Tell me you’re worth starting a war over.”
I grit my teeth.
“Say it, Raine.” His fingers draw circles over my upper thigh. I’m not, but I want his mouth back on me. “Say it,” he growls.
“I’m sexy.”
“Damn straight, but that’s not what I told you to say.” He runs his fingers down my sides. There’s a quick crack of his hand on my ass.
“Ow,” I say, though it didn’t hurt, just stung.
He grabs my ankles and I’m back on my back.
“I’m worth going to war over.”
His mouth is back on me. Now there’s a hand under my butt massaging the sting. And his fingers are working overtime with his tongue. A ball of charged air zings through my body until I’m screaming my release, bouncing on the mattress. He’s chuckling lightly against the warm skin of my leg.
I reach for him.
“No, Duchess. You need your sleep.” He rolls off the bed, and when I go to follow him into the bathroom, he pins me to the mattress with his stare. “I’ll bring you back a cloth, unless you need to use the loo?”
“No, I’m good.” I straighten the duvet, debating whether to climb under or find my pajamas and head back to my suite and Wren.
But Roark’s back. He swishes open the duvet and points. I have a choice—go or stay—but I crawl in and he takes care of me before pulling my naked back to his front. His arm locks our little and big spoons in place. It’s been a long day. It’s not hard to fall asleep.
Icrack my eyes open. Morning. The light glows through his open curtains. It’s not nearly as bright as the morning light on my side of the castle. I’ve only forgotten to close my blinds once, and that was enough.
Roark’s leg is over mine, and his arm pins me down. I should get up and go make sure Wren is okay. But the weight of his body on me is too delicious to move. I close my eyes and doze, then wake again with a start.
I should go. But Roark’s hand eases from my waist and over my bottom to my core. His fingers trail between my legs. “Open up for me, Duchess.”
I spread my legs, and his thick fingers circle my clit.
Once, twice, and then he’s throwing the covers off.
His tongue does things to me I’ll never get over.
My back arches, and I rocket off. I’m hardly down from my high when I reach for him.
I should be exhausted, but I want him. I push on his shoulder, and he sinks to the mattress.
With energy I shouldn’t have, I straddle him and ride him until he’s shouting Duchess loud enough to echo through the castle.
He rolls over, pulling me with him, his large hands holding the sides of my face.
“You are . . .” He roars, a noise that’s more animal than man.
But I know what he means. I’ve never felt this way.
It’s more than his size, his talent, which I’m trying really hard to not think about how he acquired. I’m taking it as a compliment.
Roark rolls again, and I’m lying on top of him.
He holds me to his chest, pressing me in.
I had a cat once that didn’t like to snuggle.
I used to hold it the same way, hoping that at some point it would just give in and go to sleep.
Gracing me with its presence. Forced love, I called it.
Eventually, she’d pry her way out from my arms and I’d be left with a sweater full of cat hair.
But unlike her, I don’t want to move. I tilt my chin up, looking at him. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. I’m not sure Roark ever voluntarily sleeps.
“You want to go?” His eyes crack open.
“No, but yes. Wren has to leave this morning, and I want to make sure she’s okay after everything that happened last night. And I should get to the collection.”
“Go, Duchess. I will see you later. No collection. It’s Saturday and you need to take a break.”
“I took a break yesterday.”
“Indeed, and you can take another one today.”
“But . . .”
Roark’s arms band around me. He interlocks his fingers. “A break, proper food, and rest.”
I reach up and boop his nose. “Who are you to tell me about proper food and rest?” He stares at my finger, so I do it again. “Boop.” This time with sound effects.